


To Hel With It All

by dizzymonarchs



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anglo-Saxon, Blood Eagles, Blood and Gore, Death, F/M, Gods, Herbology, King Alfred the Great], Love, Love/Hate, Near Death, Norse Mythology - Freeform, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Roughness, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzymonarchs/pseuds/dizzymonarchs
Summary: "The Gods will always smile on brave women--like the Valkyries, whose furies men fear...and desire." She was the Daughter of Mischief, or at least, she played at it. And that would be her salvation. Ivar the Boneless is going to Hel.
Relationships: Alfred (Vikings)/Original Female Character(s), Bjorn (Vikings)/Original Female Character(s), Hvitserk (Vikings)/Original Female Character(s), Ivar (Vikings)/Original Character(s), Ivar (Vikings)/Original Female Character(s), Ubbe (Vikings)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 9





	To Hel With It All

"We will raid in England again this summer," Björn Ironside announced to the great hall. A cry of celebration arose from the crowd of village members amassed within.

"There are plenty of cities that were left untouched—in good faith—under our dear friend King Egbert's rule, and we have a score to settle," he continued, leveling a heavy stare at the opposite wall. His jaw clenched with each breath as he struggled to maintain composure. By now, everyone had heard of the slaughter of the settlement on English soil. Their collective roar was reduced to a ringing din of hushed whispers and indignant murmurings.

"Prepare yourselves. We leave in three weeks' time," he concluded. One final shout of agreement and people quickly made their way out of the hall. Those that remained behind held conversations of their own in anticipation of the raids to come.

"England. Again?” Sigurd quipped to his brothers Hvitserk, Ivar, and Ubbe. They didn't take notice of the extra set of ears listening in from the next room over.

Hel stood in Queen Aslaug's chambers, weaving the monarch’s next blanket for the frigid winter on the standing rack. She hummed a tune of the saga of the Lost King’s—King Ragnar Lothbrok’s—exploits in Francia as a way to keep her mind occupied. Despite the fascinating topic the young men discussed, it was not her place to insert herself.

"Of course! We've only dealt with one of many kingdoms. Like weeds, these Christians!" Ivar spat in contempt.

"How many times have we crossed now? Three?" Ubbe noted.  
"What does that matter? We will go again and again until we've robbed them of their _holy_ land," Ivar replied hotly.

"Njord has favored us so over our last however many journeys,” Ubbe countered, “How many more times can we expect to make the crossing without serious issue? The gods are always changing their minds when it comes to how they feel about us. Look at what they did to father..."

"You want to garner their favor so badly, you should go to Uppsala to make a proper sacrifice. We'll be here with English riches when you return. I'll save you a candlestick," Ivar joked with a wry smirk.

Hel paused in her weaving. She had been listening for several moments now and bit her lip, considering if she should speak up. She had been gone for so long, and King’s sons or not, she had missed them. Well, most of them. She decided she could hold back no longer.

"I've noticed that if the winds blow toward the setting sun, they always bring a great storm. But when they blow away from it, the skies are clear for days. Does that have any bearing upon your travels?" she addressed them, pulling aside a leather hanging as she stepped into the larger room.

"Is that you, Hel? Come here! I can't see your face. You've been gone too long," he shouted. As the partition fell back into place, Hel smoothed her plain blue dress in mock discomfort. It was meant to disarm them before the conversation even began, a tactic she had learned some years ago.

When she looked back up, the boys had various forms of a charmed smile on their faces. All except Ivar. He never had a pleasant gesture to spare her, or anyone for that matter.

"How have the fearless Ragnarsons been in my time away?" Hel opened warmly. Even though she kept these young men at a distance, they were still dear to her heart. They had grown up together, played together. Siggy, the Queen’s former attendant, had practically raised her in the great hall alongside them while her father was away raiding with Ragnar. Siggy, with the help of Floki, had taught her the way of politics and and the Gods.

Hel settled herself amongst them on the wooden benches.

"You see us as we normally are: arguing away our youth. Come, tell us of your time with Earl Kalf,” Ubbe jovially offered.

She had only just recently returned from the distant earldom. Not many people knew she was back yet or what had transpired there for that matter. Now seemed as good a time as any to share her experiences from the past year or so away from Kattegat.

"The shieldmaiden Lagertha stabbed him to death to reclaim her earldom, so there's that," she spoke dryly, only the tiniest hint of amusement in her eye. Death was a part of her people and her culture—who was she to cower in front of it?

In reality, watching Earl Kalf die was more of a reaffirmation of Lagertha's strength. She was a fearsome woman, and Hel could do naught but admire her for it.

Ivar, as was his overbearing nature, took the opportunity to pounce, "And tell us, Daughter of Mischief, were you _afraid_?" He always referred to the significance of her moniker as if it were something to be ashamed of.

Her name had always been a source of tension, as all North Men knew that one's name was their legacy and their destiny. It meant “hidden,” for the secrets of the dead that crawled underneath the skin of the Guardian of Helheim. Hel was the keeper of weary souls, and any kin of Loki was further outcast, let alone a daughter. Many of the village children avoided her as a growing girl because they believed she would bring death upon them. Not the Ragnarsons.

"You know as well as I, Ivar the Witless, that if Loki were truly my father, I wouldn't deign to waste my time with mere mortals like you, no offense,” she quipped, making sure to cast spirited glances at the other men who shared her good humor. "As for Earl Kalf's death... It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen..." she trailed off, recalling the faint kiss he and Lagertha had shared in his dying breath. Hel wasn't supposed to see it, just like she wasn't supposed to see a great number of things, but that never stopped her.

She looked back up to her companions. She had thought Ivar would defend himself vehemently against name-calling, considering how horrendously smart he actually was. Instead he simply watched on.

He appraised her differently than she had ever seen him doing before in their shared seventeen years of life. His attention was a weighty fur, too warm next to the hall’s fire pits.

Pity, she had been there all along. And not sitting idle, mind.

Hel was much more lethal than he or anybody knew to give her credit for. He would never know, unless she chose to show him. And that, she vowed, would happen just as soon as the Great Winter of Ragnarök came to pass. She and Ivar didn't share things.

"Oh, boys, let us talk of more exciting things. Tell me of your last raid!” she turned the conversation quickly.

Hel allowed them to talk at length of their recent trip to the land of King Egbert. This was how she liked to see them, chattering away about the things that mattered most to them. Their eyes lit up, they smiled genuinely, and they seemed to drop the burden of being the Lost King's sons.

They all talked and yelled and laughed and mended their distant friendship. Everyone, that is, except Ivar. He uttered not a single word and only moved to take drinks from his cup from time to time.

His eyes remained upon Hel—unmoving, unblinking, transfixed.

* * *

The celebration held that night in the great hall was not in Hel’s honor, but she pretended that it was. It was certainly a perfect excuse to over-imbibe, and what good ale it was. The people were the same as they had always been; it was good to be home.

Reminiscing with the Ragnarsons had been a sweet welcome back to Kattegat minus Ivar's grilling scrutiny. Indeed, such was his way, and it had proved that he had not changed a bit in her absence. She couldn’t fault him for it. He was always thinking, that one. He seemed to be in different spirits this night though as he freely bantered with the rest of the warriors.

He never had an issue gaining respect, for what he lacked in his ability to walk, he made up for in the strength of his upper body. He could shoot the strongest of bows with little thought—bows that only the mightiest of the village men could sling, pull, and release with difficulty.

But enough of him. He was not her focus that night.

By her second cup of ale, Hel felt a warmth in her cheeks that spread down her neck, and there was a distinct burning in her belly. Gods, was she drunk already? It made sense considering she hadn't touched spirits for the length of her stay at Hedeby. She had needed to keep her wits about her, but here she felt entitled to at least one night of merriment.

' _It's that sort of thinking that will get you killed,'_ she heard a voice say. Only she hadn’t really heard it, more like felt it inside of her. It sounded almost like Siggy, only weaker. Less tangible

At that point, she didn't frankly care. Hel marched over to the barrel to refill her cup. If she couldn't agree with herself, then she would simply have to drown it out.

'To _Hel_ with it!’ she thought indignantly and tipped her full mug back. Her lungs burned and her head ached, but she didn’t stop. With one final, painful gulp, she finished the wretched drink, lifted her head, and used a sleeve to wipe away a few stray drops from her mouth.

Turning, Hel was greeted by the full attention of the hall. The room was quiet, and her eyes grew wide.

It appeared the 'Hel' comment wasn't as self-contained as originally anticipated, and judging from the fact that every last inhabitant was focused on her, it had been none too quiet.

Oh, ale. What a sweet, godly drink. Laughter erupted from her throat, loud and haughty.

" _Yea!_ " the hall let out a loud yell of approval. She doubled over in laughter and was joined by a few closer neighbors. They understood that this was Viking. They were good people who drank and shared a holy, ancient camaraderie regardless of station or sex. Gods, how she had missed them.

A young man approached who revealed himself to be Hvitserk. He grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her into a group of men sat at a nearby table.

It was unusual for him to sit here. She could see Björn, Ubbe, Sigurd, and Ivar centered around the table nearest the roaring fire as was their place as sons of the Lost King.

Hel adopted as serious a stance as she could manage with hand on hip, head held aloft (although it did bob a little), and slurred, ”What are you doing here, Hvite? Why have you abandoned your brothers in their hour of need? Drinking is no game, man!"

He seemed slightly surprised until he realized she was giving him a go of it.

"No game, indeed! How could I be expected to sit with them? Look at their hard faces! You seemed like much more fun," he jested.

“Should the night be so serious?” she cried, tossing her head back with a laugh.

"Here, sister," he handed her a full flagon, "I will not hold you back. Drink up!" He did not have to urge her more than once. Hel took three hearty chugs before she handed it back to him. Just as his fingers closed around the neck of the vessel, she pulled it back one more time for a sneaky fourth. He chuckled at the girl’s antics.

"I'm done this time. I promise," she assured him. He removed the flagon from here hands and began to down it himself.

By now, Hel’s vision had become a bit jolted, and it was becoming harder for her to keep up with regular conversation. She would do the smart thing and take some air.

"Excuse me, sir. Your entertainment needs a bit of a break," she announced to Hvitserk and his circle. Some acknowledged with a series of grunts while others raised their cups. Hel knew that she had to take her time exiting the building in order to avoid making a further spectacle of herself, so she picked her way through the crowd as carefully as possible. It was no small feat. She almost fell at least a dozen times only to be caught by some unsuspecting warrior or her own lackadaisical balance.

Passing through the archway of the hall onto the front landing, she was greeted by a dark night full of shining stars, cradled by a long stream of ash in the sky—the massive trunk and roots of the World Tree. Eagles, hawks, squirrels, and more conducted their celestial dance along its boughs, glinting maddeningly. She refused to look down at the steps below, so intent was she upon witnessing their rollicking. She should have.

Hel put her full weight down on solid ground where she presumed there to be another step, throwing her completely off balance. She spun around and clawed at the air as the ground rushed up to meet her in a most painful greeting. She lay there sprawled on all fours with her bum in the air and her face in the dirt.

A howl of laughter rose up from within her before she could take full account of what had just happened. And when she finally did, it only further reduced her into a writhing, cackling heap. She was definitely never drinking again.

Once Hel had composed herself to distinguish sky from ground, she rolled over onto her back to continue stargazing from a much safer position (as close to the ground as she could get). It was truly beautiful. The stars looked like this every night, but it had been so long since she had bent at Floki’s knee to listen to a story of the Gods’ drama in the sky. She had missed him so, and she promised to see him the very next day when some of his tinctures would be of use to ease the inevitable ache in her head.

Some time passed in her reveling, and she noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye near the great hall. It wasn't the topsy turvy movement that one sees when drunk. It was different. Solid. Something was actually moving toward her.

Hel sat up entirely too fast, dashing any hopes of orientation when she required it most. The world was practically jumping around her now, and the black mass was joining in the dance. She put her hands firmly on the ground to keep herself upright.

Her irrational mind pictured a rogue bear picking her up in its harsh, indifferent jaws and dragging her away to be devoured. But it couldn't be a bear, it was too low to the ground, and it looked like it was slithering.

A snake perhaps? At this time of night? Oh, Gods, why a snake?

She did the only reasonably thing a drunkard could do and brought her hands to hide. The rapid movement of the two appendages that were previously providing her only balance sent her back toward the ground as she pitifully yelled, ”No, snake!”

Hel lay still for a breath.

"You thought I was a snake?" a voice contemptuously asked. A human!

"Who is that?" she questioned, slightly relieved.

"Who do you think it is? And really, a snake?" the voice, clearly male, was becoming more and more agitated. That was easy to guess: Ivar. Everything came together all at once and Hel was devolving into giggles once more.

"I'm so—sorry—I just—panicked," she gasped between words. What a silly idea to think a human being could be a snake. Granted, he did slither.

"You obviously had more ale than you should have. You've lost your mind," he chided while turning to rejoin the festivities. He was no longer interested in wasting his time with someone so drunk, but why had he come at all?

"Why are you so _touchy_?" Hel asked in pure frustration. Such was his treatment of her every time they spoke. If he only knew what she had done, what she had spent years learning how to do, he would view her as his equal. Not a mindless girl who was drunk, gazing at the stars, and raving about snakes.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to engage, “Touchy?”  
"Yes, touchy. I’d even go so far as to say downright disagreeable,” she mocked.

“You have seen nothing of disagreeable from me…Yet,” he warned, turning to make his way back to the hall once more.

Siggy had taught her that any form of attention was better than no attention when it came to men, as their tempers were easily overshadowed by their lower mind. Ivar's attention was focused entirely upon her, and so she had him where she wanted him. She had only to change his regard for her from an annoyance to an ally. It would take time, but it could be done.

Ivar was going to achieve great things—all of the Ragnarsons would. Anyone could see that. It was written in the stars before they were born.

And compared to his brothers, Ivar was cunning, resourceful, and ruthless. His only limits were those he imposed upon himself.

Hel wanted to be with them in whatever triumphs lie ahead. She did not need to be known; she would merely provide aid. She could help him, his brothers, and their people if only she could convince them of her use. She would not be the omen of tragedies to come or the girl who might spread disease if one looked too long into her eyes. She would not hide in the skirts of the Queen and run to Floki’s hut in the woods whenever someone threw a stone at her. She would be of service to her people, and they would love her for it.

Hel changed her tactic, bowing her head in a show of humility, "That was foolish of me to say.”

The effect of her words was immediate, and his eyes widened in surprise. As far as she could recall, they had never spoken a kind word to each other—only exchanging pleasantries at Queen Aslaug’s request from time to time. Hel attempted to plant the seeds of friendship no matter how undue, "I do not think you touchy. You are the smartest of all your brothers, it is easy to see. I make fun of you to remind you that you _are_ one of us.” She paused, adding a coquettish little laugh to the end of my statement. She would win him over in no time if he were like every other man on Midgard.

Ivar looked frozen in place, not in fear, but out of curiosity. Hel used this as an opportunity to move closer to him as she continued, "Ivar, surely we can forgive each other for what we have done all these years?"

Her face hovered over his, but even in her drunken state she was careful to keep at least a half-arm’s length between them.

All at once, he seemed to remember himself. His eyes regained their usual condescending glint, and his face grew cold. Ivar was not like most men. She had known this.

He backed away at least a small distance before he responded, "You can stop your lying now, you are not very good at it."

_Damn that cunning of his._

"What gave me away?" she asked, a wry smile on her face.

"You were acting like a friend,” he responded, though she didn’t miss the crestfallen tone of his voice. Somehow she knew it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him.

"Yes...I should've known you'd see right through that,” she said, unable to stop watching his face.

Ivar narrowed his eyes in discernment, and a smirk made itself apparent. He seemed fascinated by the fact that she had just tried to fool him. He had never seen Hel act so dishonestly before. But that was what her life had become, and he had just tasted a mere morsel of it.

Though she wanted to be of service to him, she couldn't give herself up so readily until she was sure he would do as she wished. Sure that he would help the people of Kattegat before himself.

"Why do you act like this?" he demanded, frustrated when she didn’t offer additional explanation.

"There are some things I will to keep to myself," she stated, reaching a hand up to rub the sleepiness from her eye, “And as much as I would love to stay and discuss your temperament, I need sleep. Goodnight, Ivar. May the Gods keep you.”

"I don’t care _what_ you wish to keep to yourself," his voice stopped her before she could move, and the threat of his words were concealed by the caressing tone that escaped his lips, “I will figure it out. You will see.”


End file.
